


Of Tattoos, Surfing and Finding Love

by Ravensdawn



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: AU, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Surfing, Tattoos, The first chapters are rated G, WIP, eventually, will be rated T or M later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravensdawn/pseuds/Ravensdawn
Summary: Patrick Jane is a tattoo artist, Kimball Cho is an EMT who runs the emergency services for Santa Barbara. This is the story of how they meet.This is the first chapter of my latest rambling story.  The plan is to post a chapter a week. Even if no one is reading it, it will encourage me to keep writing.  I'm as shocked as anyone that I enjoy writing fanfic, I hope you enjoy!





	1. Making a Change

Kimball had never noticed that particular tattoo parlor before.  _Wasn’t that a gem shop or something?_ He wondered when it had changed.  He glanced in the window, but didn’t want to look too much like a gawking tourist, so he kept it brief.  He was headed down the beach to the lifeguard’s shed.  Those new kids weren’t going to train themselves. 

Kimball had moved from Sacramento to the sunny beaches of Santa Barbara almost a decade ago.  He had done his stint in the army as a medic and had gotten extensive training in emergency medicine.  He had thought about med school, but went the first responder route instead.  Over the years, he’d saved hundreds of lives, earned a reputation as a skilled EMT and the man you want in an emergency.  He was well known as being a man of few words, but those words were well worth your time.

The move to Santa Barbara came when he got a call attempting to recruit him to head up Emergency Services for the city.  At first he declined, because every new idea took some time to wile its way into his brain to take root.  Over the next few days he found he couldn’t let go of the idea of beautiful weather, clean streets and more control over his time and therefore over his life.  When he returned their call, they were falling over themselves to be accommodating, and by the end of the call he couldn’t say no. They didn’t even mind he wasn’t certified as a lifeguard, he could get his certification while getting up and running at his new position.

Now, he was training new lifeguards.  Treating people after accidents at the beach had become a large part of his job.  Who knew how dangerous a day at the beach could be.  There’s the obvious, like people swimming out too far or getting overwhelmed by the undertow.  Then there are lacerations from shells and rocks, jellyfish stings, and sunburns. He’d never understand how someone could sit there and let their skin get so badly burned that they needed medical attention.  Then there’s all the unexpected stuff.  Knocked unconscious by a careless surfboarder swinging their board around, or contusions from a conk on the noggin from a Frisbee.  Allergic reactions to stinging flies, turned ankles on the sand, heat exhaustion (another one he never could quite wrap his head around), being run over by a bicyclist, and one memorable time someone lost control over their motorboat and drove it straight onto the beach. 

When he’d gotten near his fill of saving people from themselves, he’d turned to training.  He absolutely loved it.  He loved the young people and their enthusiasm kept him going.  He was still helping and saving people, but this new way of giving back was refreshing and rewarding.  That’s where he was headed when he noticed the new tattoo place.

Patrick flipped the sign to “Open” and toasted himself with his cup of tea in personal celebration of finally establishing his own tattoo parlor.  He had lived in San Diego all his life.  He started surfing when he was ten and was the kind of kid that bothered anyone and everyone until someone took him surfing.  His parents signed him up for lessons for his 11th birthday and he never looked back.  By the time he was 15, he was better than his instructors, who often had him help in class. By 18 he had won all the local competitions, was a fully certified lifeguard, and was teaching his own group of beginners.  His instructors encouraged him to compete nationally, but Patrick couldn’t see himself doing it, so he didn’t.

Patrick’s second love was drawing.  He drew so much his teachers often scolded him for drawing all over his school work.  His favorite thing to draw was the beach and the palm trees and the Birds of Paradise that grew all around.  He drew California’s rolling hills and mountains.  He loved drawing on the beach at sunset after a long day surfing.  Sometimes, he created patterns, or drew a shell or a pine cone he found with as much detail as possible.  One day, he noticed a man looking over his shoulder at his drawings.  The man complimented him and asked if he’d ever thought of being a tattoo artist.  He hadn’t.

“Think about it, you’re very good,” the man had said.

“I’m only 16,” he’d responded.

“Never too young to start learning,” was the man’s answer.

Patrick did think about it.  He couldn’t stop thinking about it.  A few days later, he hesitantly opened the door to the local tattoo place.  He nearly turned and ran, but curiosity overcame his nerves.  The receptionist was the only one who looked up at him.  He was everything you’d expect the receptionist at a tattoo place to look like.  Tattoos peaked out from under his t-shirt and he had those rings in his ears that stretch the lobe around them.  Patrick couldn’t think what they were called.   Wylie (nametag hung on a chain around his neck)  smiled and asked how he could be of help.  Patrick explained that he was interested in being a tattoo artist one day and asked if he could observe.

“How old are you?” the receptionist inquired.

“16,” Patrick had replied.

“Um, ok, you can at least be in here.  It’d be up to our artists and the customers to decide if you can watch.  Let me get your phone and I’ll talk to the guys and see what we can come up with.”

It was at that moment that Gracie spoke, looking up from her work. 

“You can watch me now if you like.  I’m in the middle of this one and Bill doesn’t mind.”  The customer, Bill, made eye contact with Patrick and smiled.

“C’mon kiddo, I don’t bite,” Bill said in his gravely voice.

Patrick said thank you, beamed from ear to ear, and Gracie pulled up a chair for him. 

And that is how Patrick became enthralled with tattooing.  He rarely missed a chance to sit in with Gracie and Wayne, the other tattoo artist, when they gave him permission to do so.  It was the most amazing thing he’d seen, and to have his work permanently with someone, to have his artwork have meaning to those who had it, he was hooked.

His parents, however, strongly encouraged him to go to college.  They pushed too much for Patrick’s liking, but even he could see that surfing could only get him so far, and if there was any money to be made in being a tattoo artist, was in owning your own shop.  He agreed to go to college and majored in art and business.  After college, he apprenticed with Gracie and the shop even gave him his first job.

A few years later and he met Teresa.  She was wild and new and crazy talented.  Patrick fell hard.  Things moved rapidly, and they were living together by the month’s end.  By the end of the year, they had opened their own tattoo place. For a while, things were great, work was steady, and the weekends were filled with surfing and hiking and whatever new extreme sport Teresa was into.  But Teresa was not a woman to easily settle down.  She was restless and not interested in domesticity, at least not yet.  She wanted to “see the world” and “experience everything possible.” The catch was that she didn’t seem to be including Patrick in those plans.  It hurt, but Patrick was happy with his life right there in San Diego.  With Teresa. He didn’t really want to see the world.  He was devastated when Teresa left.  She took all the light out of his life, and he wondered if he’d ever have that again.

After a dismal month of tears and emotional fog, he decided a change of venue might do him some good. His recent lack of enthusiasm for tattooing was reflected in the lack of clients.  He couldn’t stand to be there anymore.   Santa Barbara seemed like a good place to go, so he pulled up his roots and set off.  The hardest part was saying good-bye to Gracie and Wayne.  They encouraged him and told him he was doing the right thing. They took him out for drinks, assured him he always had their support and he told them they could come and see him in Santa Barbara any time.


	2. Santa Barbara

Santa Barbara was beautiful.  The surfing was amazing and everyone seemed so happy. Patrick was right about the move.  It rejuvenated him, snapped him out of his gloom.  He found a small shop close to the beach, repainted, redecorated, and hung his shingle. He hired a company to design a website, complete with online appointment booking and posted fliers everywhere he could think of in a five-mile radius.  Nothing to do then but wait for someone to give his skills a chance.

It was a fluke.  Patrick had found some busy work as business was slow, and he had finally given up and made himself a cup of tea.  He was staring off out the window when a man glanced in looking a little confused as he walked past.  The man was built, the lines flowing around his muscles made him a walking work of art.  He had on board shorts and the tight tank he wore only served to accentuate his six pack and his pecs that went on for miles.  Patrick forced himself to look away, he didn’t want to get caught staring.  By the time he looked back, all he saw was the tail end of the stretcher the man was carrying. 

The Beautiful Man walked by the shop every day for a week. After the first day, he didn’t even glance in his direction.  Patrick found himself looking forward to seeing him go by.  _How lonely must I be?_ Patrick worried about himself.  It only got worse when one morning, he decided the best time to set out the little sandwich-board type sign he got for advertising, was when he knew The Beautiful Man would be passing by.

Patrick was no shab himself.  He worked out, he surfed.  So he put on his favorite board shorts, a tank and a Hawaiian shirt over top.  He took a moment to make sure his hair was tousled just so, then laughed at himself.  _I really need to get out more_. Then he told himself, _“I don’t want to get out more, I don’t want go to bars.  I just need a friend, and how could it hurt to meet this guy.”_ He silently nodded his head in agreement with himself, squared his shoulders, and went out to write his sign.

Kimball was headed to the lifeguard shack. Training was a six-week deal and he was only a week or so in.  He spent his mornings there and after lunch went back to his office.  As he walked down the sidewalk, he saw a man with fantastic blond curls crouching to write on a little sign.  When the man looked up, he smiled at Kimball so bright he had to blink.  Not usually a man who smiled easily, Kimball instinctively returned that smile that was competing with the sun.

“What?” Kimball said without thinking.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought the guy had said something.

“Good morning,” Patrick repeated with a smirk.

“Oh, good morning,” Kimball answered.  He let his momentum carry him on, only later realizing he might have come off as rude, when actually he was taken by surprise and not at his best.  He got to the end of the street and turned to look back.  He contemplated returning and properly introducing himself, but Curls had gone back into his shop.  It’d be weird now.

The next morning, Patrick had an early client and was working when Kimball went by.  This time, Kimball turned and waved at Patrick, who only dared look up from his work and smile.  He didn’t want to make a mistake on the tattoo.  By Friday though, Patrick had completed that tattoo and only had one more client that evening.  He decided he could afford a couple hours surfing.  He hadn’t been for a few days, and you never know, he might run into The Beautiful Man.   The day was gorgeous and the surf was up.  Wave after perfect wave and Patrick was in heaven.  He stopped thinking about anything other than the ocean and his place on it.  Muscle memory did all the work, the rest of his brain filled with the clean ocean air, the call of the sea gulls, and the glorious sun warming his skin. 

Movement in his periphery was his first warning.  The surfer next to him lost control. His board thrashed with the wave.  Patrick ducked and swerved.  The water rushed and he grabbed a breath.  Pain flashed the side of his head.  The world went dark.  He forced his eyes open.  _Sun, where’s the sun!_ All he saw was watery blue. The merciless wave tumbled his thrashing form.  This time the world went dark for good. 

Kimball heard the people screaming from inside the lifeguard’s little shack on the beach.  He ran and told his class to follow.  He yelled to them to stay on the beach and observe.  Instantly shifting from instructing to doing, he dove into the waves to help Todd, the lifeguard on duty, who was already well on his way.  Kimball watched Todd catch up with the man who had crashed into Patrick, who immediately started screaming.

“There’s another guy!  I saw him go down!  There’s another guy!  He was surfing!  He went under!  You have to get him!” he frantically screamed.   The lifeguard made eye contact with Kimball.  He carefully scanned the ocean for a surfboard.  A blink of reflected sun and Kimball was off.  Swimming with powerful strokes, he came upon an unconscious man dangling from the surf cord strapped to his ankle.  He dove in, wrapped his arms around the man and hauled him to the surface.  He used the board for support and checked for a pulse.  Nothing.  No breath.  Treading water he rested the man’s head on the surfboard, pinched his nose and blew into his mouth.  He repeated the rescue breaths when he got no response.  _Oh, my God. It’s Curls._ Kimball’s heart pounded, knowing the victim always made the situation that much more stressful.

Todd made it back to shore with his charge, who was banged up but mostly fine.  Emergency services had arrived and were tending to him, he may have broken his ankle. As soon as they had gotten to the beach, he radioed for the water rescue team to get on their Skidoo’s and get out there to help Kimball. 

The sound of a motor was a welcome relief.  The Skidoo was equipped with a floating stretcher onto which the maneuvered Patrick’s still lifeless body.  Kimball covered Patrick’s body with his own, holding onto the handles on either side of the stretcher.  The long seconds of the ride to the beach were endless.  Finally, they got there and Kimball was administering CPR again even as they were still moving.  The EMT’s from the ambulance were there with oxygen and equipment.

“Kim, let us take over, we’ll get him!”  his best friend David yelled.  Kimball jumped back and got to his feet, relegated to watching his friends work.  They assessed Patrick as well, clamped the rescue oxygen over his face and pumped his chest.  Nothing.  No signs of life.  Hands dried his chest and efficiently placed the defibrillator pads.  Someone yelled “Clear!” and Patrick’s body spasmed.  “Clear!” again and more spasms.  This time, he coughed and water bubbled out of his mouth.  They turned him on his side and more water poured out.  A garbled, strained inhale and coughing exhale had everyone smiling, relief written all over their faces.  They strapped the oxygen mask to Patrick’s face and lifted the stretcher to carry him to the ambulance.  The crowd around cheered.

Patrick’s life was confusion.  The sun hurt his eyes.  Mysterious pain in his head.  His chest felt like someone hand been hammering on it and try as he might, he couldn’t quite breathe.  He was moving forward.  _Floating? Flying? No, carried._ The movement made him dizzy.  He tried to talk but something was on his face.  He couldn’t get his arms to work to get it off.  Panic set in and he thrashed in effort to free himself. 

“Hey, hey, take it easy,” a calming voice said to him. Someone put their hand on his shoulder.  “You were hurt in a surfing accident.  You’re going to be ok.  Open your eyes.” Kimball spoke to him as gently as he could.  He’d seen people have the panic overwhelm them and he hoped to prevent that.  “Please open your eyes, it’s okay,” the soothing voice gave him the courage to try to find the muscles that worked his eyelids.  He succeeded and the information he got from his eyes only served to further confuse him.

“Da Bootiful Mn?” Patrick mumbled under his mask.

“What?” Kimball perked up, glad to have gotten a response from Curls. 

But Patrick’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp. 

“Hey!  Hey!  No no no!  C’mon man, stay with me!”  Kimball’s pleading went unheeded. No pulse again.  More shocks from the defibrillator.   Beep, beep, beep, a steady rhythm once again established.  Kimball couldn’t get him to open his eyes this time.  He watched the ragged rise and fall of Curl’s chest and wished like Hell they’d get to the hospital already. 


	3. The Next Day

Kimball startled awake.  It was dark. Curls (they still didn’t know his name, he didn’t have his wallet on him) was restless in his sleep, making small noises.   Kimball hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the hospital room.  He stood up to go. The man in the bed seemed to be in pain and he couldn’t leave him like that, even if he felt awkward being there.  Chalking it up to the cover of darkness and the wee hour, he took his hand in his and gently squeezed.  The man settled down.  Kimball went to take his hand away, but to no avail.  It was being held tight.  He’d wake him for sure if he pried his hand away. He looked around the room as if a solution to his problem would be written on one of the walls. He couldn’t even see the walls.  _Call the nurse maybe?_   They’d find him in there holding hands with a man he’d only said good morning to once.  The nurse would probably wake up Curls.  Nothing to do but pull up a chair and sit back down.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Hello?” then, “Hey, are you awake?” Patrick had discerned he was in a hospital room.  He vaguely remembered being smacked in the head by a surf board.  The details after that were fuzzy.  Absolutely no idea who the man holding his hand sleeping with his head on his bed was.  _Should I know this guy? Do I have some sort of weirdly specific amnesia where I remember most things but forget I have a boyfriend?_

“Hey,” Patrick said, a little louder.  The man stirred, turning toward Patrick for the first time.  Patrick’s eyes went wide. Kimball registered where he was and what he was doing.  He lept out of the chair and back from the bed dropping Patrick’s hand like it was on fire.  The two men stared at each other wide-eyed, neither knowing what to say.  Patrick flexed his hand, feeling the loss.

A moment went by.   Then another.

Kimball cleared his throat.  “I…ah, I was, um…..” he started.  “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.”

When Patrick merely nodded his head and shrugged, Kimball continued.

“I fell asleep.  I woke when you were restless.  I was going to leave.  Instead I held your hand.  You settled down.  You wouldn’t let go.  So I sat down.  I guess I fell asleep again,” he said in a carefully chosen rush of words.

“Thank you?” Patrick said after a beat.

Kimball shuffled and looked down.  “You’re welcome?”

That made them laugh, breaking the tension.  Kimball started breathing again.

“Why were you here to fall asleep in here in the first place?” Patrick was curious.

“Oh!  I’m the one who pulled you from the water!  I happened to be on the beach when your accident happened.”  Kimball was waking up now.  “I’m the head of Emergency Services here and I was training lifeguards on the beach when you had your accident,” he said in the most profession voice he could after being caught holding hands with a stranger.

“What happened to me?” Ok, this was a question Kimball tread carefully around whenever he was asked.  He often had no idea who the people were who he helped and never knew just how much to tell. 

“Maybe the doctor should fill you in on that, I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” Kimball answered, evading the question.

“The doctor wasn’t on the beach,” Patrick said.  Then, remembering his manners, “I’m Patrick, Patrick Jane, by the way, what’s your name?”

“Kimball Cho,” he said as he reached to shake Patrick’s hand. It was an odd reminder of the state they woke up in.  But he was already in the middle of reaching for his hand.  Shaking his hand would be weird, not shaking his hand would be weird.  His hand stopped and started as these thoughts ran through his brain.  Then he laughed and shook Patrick’s hand with purpose.  Patrick laughed, too.  “Well, that was awkward,” Kimball said, causing more nervous giggles.  Kimball was thinking about fleeing the room and never ever leaving his house again.

“The doctor wasn’t on the beach, Kimball,” Patrick doggedly brought the topic back.

“From what people said, the man next to you surfing lost control, and in trying to right himself got way too close and completely lost control of his board.  It sprung up just as you were coming down and whacked you on the side of the head.  They said you dropped like a stone. “

Patrick looked a little shocked, so Kimball stopped his narrative. 

“Please go on,” Patrick requested, “I really would like to know”

“You sure?”

“Please.  I can take all the gory details.” Patrick sounded sure.

“You were dangling under the water from your surf cord, bleeding from the side of your head when I got to you.  I hauled you up and the guys got there with a Ski Doo.  We brought you back to shore.   The EMT’s took over when we got to the beach…..” he hesitated.

“What?” Patrick insisted.

“Well, um, you didn’t have a pulse.  You weren’t breathing.  I was giving you CPR on the ride to the beach…..”

Patrick’s face changed to an expression Kimball couldn’t read.

“I was dead?”

“Only for a few minutes.  They shocked your heart back into beating.  You coughed up water and started breathing.  Everyone cheered” Kimball added the cheering part to soften the blow.

“Everyone cheered?  Everyone was watching?!”

To Kimball’s surprise, a crowd of people as witnesses was worse than having to be brought back from the dead. _This is why I wanted the doctor to tell him what happened._

“It was great, I promise.  We all wanted you to breathe so badly and we didn’t think you would and then you did!  It was awesome!” Kimball thought that would help.  It didn’t.  Patrick still looked horrified.

“How many times did they have to shock my heart? How long was I really out?”  Patrick demanded.  He was sounding upset and possibly a little afraid.

Kimball was digging a hole he wasn’t meaning to dig.  “Patrick, it’s alright.  You’re ok.  It’s going to be alright.  You’re alive and clear headed and feeling well enough to be angry with me.  All good signs.” Kimball used the most soothing voice he had.

“Just tell me,” Patrick said somewhere between a plea and a demand.

Those big, emotional deep blue eyes were having their effect.

“Twice on the beach and again in the ambulance,” Kimball replied simply.  “I don’t know exactly how long you were out.  It was about five minutes from the time we got on the sand, then only a few seconds on the ride to the hospital.  You’ve been holding your own ever since.”

Patrick took a moment to process this.  He burst into tears. 

Kimball didn’t even stop to consider.  He went to the bedside and wrapped his arms around Patrick, rocking gently.  “I’m so sorry, so sorry this happened to you,” Kimball whispered. 

All Patrick could think was he could have died _. I did die._   His ever-helpful brain voiced the worst of it. He knew approximately no one here.  No one knew him and he could have died.  Would his parents ever have figured it out?  What about Gracie and Wayne?  Teresa?  He would have disappeared off the face of the Earth.  He let himself fall into the arms of a man he’d longed for as he watched him walk by his store. He was too tired, too shocked, too upset, too frightened, too everything.

They were quiet as Patrick cried himself out.  He gathered himself up best he could.  He detached himself from Kimball and reached for the tissues.  Kimball stood back up.  That was a little more intimacy than either had expected. A little embarrassing, a lot nice.

“You don’t have to stay anymore.  I’m ok,” Patrick offered.

“I can stay,” Kimball offered back.

“No, it’s ok, I’ll be alright, promise,” Patrick was sounding more like himself.

“I wanted to be here when you woke up. I should probably check in at work, ” Kimball answered honestly.

They were saved by a nurse coming in. Kimball took his chance to go.

“Is it alright if I come back later?” he asked Patrick.

“I’d like that,” Patrick answered.

“I’ll see you later then,” Kimball said, and with a small smile to himself, he left the room.


	4. Getting Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so once a week turned into once a month, but life kinda got in the way these past two weeks.

Patrick spent three long, lonely, stressful days in the hospital.  They were spent having test after test.  Other than being sore, he felt fine.  If they asked him one more time what his name was, what the date was and who the president was, he might just explode.  Being young and healthy was paying off.  He still couldn’t remember much of the day of the accident, but his MRI was clear and he passed the neurologist’s tests with flying colors.   The wound on his head would need tending to.  His lungs were healing.  His heart was recovering from being shocked and his chest was returning to normal. They finally let him go home armed with info sheets, phone numbers and follow-up appointments.

He took a taxi.  Felt like years since he’d been in his little apartment.  _I should get a dog…or a cat._ He mused over the fact that Kimball hadn’t returned to visit. _I’m so lonely. I thought I was doing so well now look at me.  Out of the hospital all on my own. I left my friends. I thought….never mind what I thought._   His mood plummeted.  He sat on his couch and stared at the turned-off TV.  A few minutes later he got himself up, took his meds and went to bed.  It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon, he didn’t care.

Kimball walked onto the hospital ward and went straight to Patrick’s room.  He stopped short at the sight of the empty bed.  _Oh, my God, he died._ He all but ran to the nurse’s station, thinking the whole time that Patrick was dead and he’d never come back to visit.  _Patrick seemed fine when I left. How could he be dead, he’s younger than me.  We saved him, we saved him, he can’t be gone. It was just a couple days….just a bump on the head…and not breathing…and no heartbeat, and drowning…._

The woman at the desk was Tammy, a nurse who Kimball knew quite well from his association with the hospital.  She took one look at Kimball’s face and assumed the worst. “What’s happened?  Are you alright?!” she asked anxiously.

“What happened to Patrick?” Kimball couldn’t say much more.

“Patrick?” the nurse asked, unsettlingly.

“Patrick, the man who was in that room there,” Kimball said abruptly, pointing to the room.

“Oh, Patrick! Patrick went home this morning.  He’s doing great!” she said, then added, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright.” She put a hand on his shoulder.

Kimball sighed deeply, relief all over his face.  “It was the empty bed that did it.”

“Patrick is so strong, you’d hardly know what he’d been through, we were all surprised how quickly he recovered,” she added.  “You thought….you thought he was…...gone, didn’t you?” she asked gently.

“Yeah, yeah I did,” Kimball huffed a small laugh at himself.  The nurse smiled pityingly at him.  “Any chance I could get his contact info?” Kimball needed her to stop looking at him like that.

“Really not supposed to,” Tammy answered, “but he took a taxi home and I know you.  He might need someone to look in on him.  Tell you what, I’ll give you a phone number, that way you can ask him if he’d like some company.”

“Thanks.  I should have come in sooner, he would have given it to me himself,” Kimball stated surely.

Tammy merely raised her eyebrows to that and set about finding Patrick’s number and writing it down.

“Promise you’ll be good to him,” she said as she handed over the number. She winked.  Kimball sighed and rolled his eyes.

“There’s nothing going on,” he protested.  “I told him I’d visit.  I didn’t.  I need to fix that.” Kimball said.

“Uh huh,” Tammy teased.

“Bye, Tammy, thanks,” Kimball didn’t rise to the bait, he smiled and waved as he walked away.

 

Patrick heard his phone ringing and wondered who on Earth could be calling him. He hadn’t really been sleeping, but he wasn’t awake either.  He rolled over in bed and reached for his phone on the side table.  He didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voicemail.  In a moment, the little chime that tells him he has a message went off.  He sighed and yawned.  He guessed if it was important enough to leave a message, he probably ought to listen to it.

“Um…Hi….Patrick….um…this is Kimball.  Sorry I missed you at the hospital.  Give me a call if you’d like some company,” Kimball’s voice on the recording was reassuring and Patrick had no idea how he did that. 

He stared at the phone.  He had met the Beautiful Man, his name was Kimball, and when he had had no one, Kimball held him in his arms and let him cry.  Now he mysteriously had his phone number and was checking on him.  Patrick was confused.  He didn’t come to visit, but now he’s calling.  Patrick would love some of his company, but didn’t know how to approach that phone call.  “ _Yes, Kimball, please, pretty please come over and spend time with me,_ ” sounded desperate.  On the other hand, Kimball had called and offered.

Patrick sat himself up in bed and in a moment of daring, tapped the little phone icon.  He listened to the rings, and no one picked up, he assumed he’d be leaving a message.  He had just started forming his thoughts into that message when, “Hello?” startled him so that he nearly dropped the phone.

“Kimball? This is Patrick,” he was pleasantly surprised by his steady voice.

“Patrick !  I’m so glad you called back.  I wanted to apologize for not visiting at the hospital,” Kimball told him.

“It’s ok,” Patrick reassured.

“I went to the hospital today.  I thought you’d still be there.  Are you doing well?” he answered.

“Would you like to come over?  I don’t have much, but there’s beer and fruit water in the fridge, or we could have tea or coffee?” Patrick took a chance.

“I’ll bring the pizza,” Kimball answered.  “Be there in half an hour.”

“Perfect.” Patrick answered and they hung up.

 

Kimball knocked and Patrick opened the door.  Patrick apologized for being in his comfy clothes, explaining he was too tired to get dressed.  Kimball told him he looked great, especially for what he’d just been through.  “You look great, too” Patrick replied sincerely.  They made the kind of eye contact that made Patrick’s face blush and caused Kimball’s tummy rumble.  Kimball stepped inside and put the pizza down on the coffee table.  Patrick headed to the fridge but Kimball stopped him.

“No, you sit.  I’ll get the drinks.  No beer for you, you’re still on pain meds.”

“You’re no fun.”

“And you need to rest,” Kimball said with a smile, “We can have fun later.” That was more suggestive than Kimball meant, but he let it stand.  _I’m not wrong._

They ate with a movie on the TV droning in the background, not really knowing what to say.  After finishing a slice, Kimball ventured a “How are you doing anyway?”

“My head still hurts, but really, I feel pretty good,” Patrick found himself being strangely honest with this man.

“When we’re done, let me change the bandage for you,” Kimball offered.

“That’s OK, I, uh, I can’t do it,” Patrick stammered, “I mean, I _can_ do it.”  Then added, “Really, it’s okay,” completely unconvincingly.

Kimball let the matter drop.  They watched more of that movie that thinks it’s a Marvel comic, you know the one with the green girl that Kimball could never remember the name of.  It was better than he remembered it.  Movies are generally better when you pay attention to them, he admonished himself.  He also realized that he felt at home.  He didn’t really know Patrick, but he was comfortable with him.  They didn’t have to fill the time with conversation.  It was pleasant to be on a couch at opposite ends being together.  Kimball could count the number of people he had felt like this with on the fingers of one hand, and that was usually after knowing them forever first.  He liked the way things were going.

Patrick, for his part, was gently snoring with his head awkwardly leaning on the armrest.

Kimball smiled indulgently. It was getting late.  He cautiously put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder and he opened his eyes and sheepishly sat up. “Sorry,” was all he could muster.

“It’s ok, I’ll get going and let you go to bed,” he said, standing up.  “I really would feel better if you let me check your head wound.  Strictly on a professional basis,” he said, smiling as he did so.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” Patrick acquiesced. 

“Did they send you home with fresh bandages?”  
“Yeah, in the kitchen.”

“Do you have meds to take?”  
“I took them at 4, I think it’s too early to have any more now.”

“Are you in pain?” Kimball asked in a not-entirely-professional voice.

Patrick shook his head.  “Not overwhelming, no.”

Kimball scrutinized him trying to discern if he was being polite or honest.  Apparently satisfied, he moved on to the bandages.

Patrick sat at his little kitchen table while Kimball inspected his supplies. Then Kimball gently lifted the tape around the bandage.  His hands were warm and sure.  He wasn’t prepared for what was underneath. A rounded “V” of stitches ran from just above his ear, up to his temple and over onto his forehead. The skin was all the colors of the rainbow – yellow, red, blue, purple. There were maybe twenty or thirty small, neat stiches, expertly closing up what must have been one hell of a gash, carefully kept close to his hairline.  If the board had hit a couple inches one way, he could have lost his ear, a couple inches the other, it could have been an eye.  He must have been hit by the fin, though Kimball wasn’t sure how that could have happened.  He kept all of these horrifying thoughts to himself.  Instead, he commented on how perfect the stitches were and how they were healing well.  He put the antibiotic on the wound and replaced the bandage. He shifted it a little to keep the tape out of Patrick’s hair as much as possible.

Patrick watched as Kimball worked noting the concentration on his face.  His liquid brown eyes were full of care and what Patrick thought must be a keen intelligence. When Kimball was done, there was that eye contact again. This time, though, Patrick stood and pulled Kimball into an embrace, mumbling thanks into his ear. He heard a quiet “you’re welcome” in return.  Kimball squeezed tight and let him go. 

“Promise me, you’ll head to bed now, okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick promised while walking toward the door. “Will you promise me something?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“When I’m better, you’ll let me take you out for a beer.”

“Of course,” Kimball sounded hopeful.  With that, he opened the door and went home.  Patrick dutifully hauled himself down the hall to bed.

 


	5. The Tattoo

In the next few days, Patrick began calling the clients he would have been tattooing if he hadn’t been in the hospital.  Most of them were very understanding.  A couple of them had gone elsewhere, but he knew that would happen.  He admitted to himself he was relieved that due to scheduling, he still had nearly a week before he had to go back to work.  Kimball began coming over every day.  His excuse was to check on Patrick, his progress and make sure he was taking his meds.

“Antibiotics only work if you take them all,” was a refrain Patrick was getting tired of hearing.  He didn’t complain until around day 8 when they were almost finished.

“I feel fine.  There’s no infection, everything is good,” he’d say.

Kimball would roll his eyes and patiently explain, again, that how Patrick feels has little to do with making sure all of the infectious agents were killed off.  When he started in on his lecture about creating “super bugs”, Patrick would sigh and take his meds.  “Okay, okay, I get it,” hoping the lecture would end soon.  It didn’t.  Kimball went on, talking about having to take stronger antibiotics if these don’t work and he could be in trouble the next time he gets sick…..etc.

“I took it, okay? You win,” Patrick feigned exasperation.

“Was that so hard?” Kimball teased.

“It was terrible.  I hate when you use science against me,” Patrick joked back.

 

The Saturday morning before Patrick returned to work, Patrick was feeling quite like himself again.  No more bandages or medicine to take.  Only one more follow-up visit.  The scar would be there probably the rest of his life.  He’d been given the number of a plastic surgeon, but he didn’t know if he could afford that.  The mark wasn’t too bad and he was sure it would fade.  Maybe he’d just grow his hair out a little. He was looking forward to getting his life back together.  Again.

Kimball approached him, looking a little hesitant.   They were standing in Patrick’s kitchen waiting for the coffee and tea to brew.

“What?” Patrick asked. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“I want a tattoo,” was all Kimball said.

“Oh.  And?” Patrick prompted.

“Will you do it?”

“I’d love to.”

“I thought you might not want to,” Kimball admitted.  “But I’ve wanted one for a while, and never trusted anyone to do it for me before.”

“I’m flattered,” Patrick said sincerely.

Kimball walked over to Patrick and kissed him.  “Can we start today?” he said with no explanation for the kiss or a follow up.

Patrick blinked a few times, stared for a moment and cleared his throat.  “Right after breakfast.”

The coffee maker dinged startling the two of them.  The moment was lost.  They got their drinks and the muffins Patrick had picked up the day before and ate in silence.  When they were done they put their dishes in the sink.  Kimball put the cream back in the fridge.  He turned around only to be cornered by a very intense-looking Patrick. Pushed up against the appliance, Kimball melted under the gaze of those midnight blue eyes.  Patrick put his hand on Kimball’s cheek and leaned in and kissed him.  He rubbed their lips together and kissed him again.  He opened his mouth and felt Kimball’s breath on his cheek as he breathed through his nose.  He heard a soft grumbling moan.  Could have been him.  Kimball pulled Patrick in by wrapping an arm around the small of his back.  Electricity shot down Patrick’s spine. Kimball’s ears turned red as he kissed down Patrick’s neck. He’d been dying to do this for days.  Patrick closed his eyes and hummed.  Other than that, they were quiet.

Kimball learned what people meant when they say time stands still.  Nothing mattered but the two of them, the sun streaming in the window and the feelings coursing through his body. The yellow sun warmed the room and made it glow.  A dream.  He put his hands on Patrick’s hips and began to sway a little. Patrick’s humming turned into a melody.  Lips attached, slow steps back and forth, so close their belt buckles clashed, all to his song. _I can’t help falling in love with you._ The lyrics of the tune wound through Patrick’s brain. The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile.  Kimball pulled back enough to see his face and smiled, too.

“Let’s go get you that tattoo,” Patrick said collecting himself.

“Yeah,” Kimball nodded and took a deep breath, “Okay.”  He looked over at Patrick, whose eyes were shining and crinkly and Kimball thought he might die from the beauty of the sight.

Snappy Tattoos, Patrick’s shop, was brightly lit with framed drawings covering the walls.  In between, designs were painted right on the wall itself.  Kimball took a small piece of paper out of his back pocket and handed to Patrick, asking if he thought he could do it.

It was two fish forming a circle around the plus sign of emergency services.  The fish were highly detailed and colorful, eyes shining and scales glinting.  The cross was solid and red to match the red that ran through the fishes’ scales.   Patrick studied the picture, deciding on how to start.

“It’s beautiful, did you draw this?”

“God no.  A friend of mine.  I’m a Pisces. I like fish,” Kimball explained.

“This will probably take 2 to 3 hours, depending on how it goes” Patrick went on, “I’d love to hear the story behind it.”

“Sometime,” Kimball said cryptically, while looking down.

Patrick didn’t push.  Instead he asked, “Where would you like it?”

“Right shoulder.” Clearly he’d thought about this.

Alright, then, come sit down, I’ll get my tracing papers,” Patrick had switched into “work” mode and he began to feel like himself again.

He worked in silence for a while drawing the outline of the design, taking a moment to decide the best way to tackle the tattoo.  Patrick got lost in the effort, feeling like he was putting on an old, favorite shirt again.  It probably took him ten minutes or so to get a rough sketch, considerably longer to get it how he liked.  He looked up to notice Kimball hadn’t actually sat, but was standing a few steps back, watching him.  Patrick blushed and looked away.

“Sorry,” Kimball said because he’d been caught watching.

“Don’t be.”

“You’re an artist,” Kimball said with a touch of wonder.

“I love doing this,” Patrick replied, “and I’m really good.” This came with a smug smile.

“That you are,” Kimball agreed.  He couldn’t help himself.  He leaned down and kissed Patrick where he sat.  Patrick held the back of Kimball’s neck holding him in place.  This time their mouths were wide open, completely sealed together, tongues touching. Patrick was dizzy.  He loved this.  These feelings.  Acceptance, connection, safety.  Kimball wasn’t faring much better, he almost lost his footing. He had lots of very close friends and had dated on and off, but never anything serious.  He dared himself to imagine that Patrick could be more than casual.

Eventually, Patrick broke the kiss. “I thought you wanted a tattoo,” he said with a wide, warm smile.

“I can want two things at once,” he answered, brown eyes black with pupil.  He crossed to the chair and settled in, rolling up his short sleeve. 

Patrick shook his head and got up, too.  He dragged his wheeled tray of tattooing paraphernalia over to where he could reach it, grabbed for the rubbing alcohol to clean Kimball’s skin, and mentally prepared to work.  He pressed the design he’d traced onto Kimball’s shoulder and held up a mirror to ask about the placement.  When Kimball nodded in agreement, he very carefully peeled the paper away, leaving a black outline.  He checked with Kimball one last time, and started tattooing the design. His delicate hands were certain in their movements, stronger than they looked. The look of concentration was back and Kimball found he could watch all he wanted. Patrick was so focused he didn’t seem to notice.   He worked until he completed all the lines.  He cleaned it up, wiping away blood and ink to show his client his progress so far, asking if now would be a good time for a break or if he wanted to keep going.

Kimball had gotten used to the steady pin prick of the tattoo needles over the past hour or so it had taken.  “Can I get some water and then keep going?” The pain was manageable.  He wasn’t ready to go home.

“Of course,” Patrick replied, “thanks for doing this, I was feeling rusty.”

“I should be thanking you,” Kimball responded. “You’re the one fulfilling a dream.”

Patrick looked confused and there was something else in his expression Kimball couldn’t quite read. 

“I mean, I’ve wanted this tattoo forever,” he explained.

“Oh”

Kimball could tell he’d disappointed Patrick somehow.  “What did you think just then?”

“Nothing,” Patrick avoided the question, but saw the purse of Kimball’s lip that he’d learned meant he was upset.  “I thought you meant me.  For a beat, I thought you meant I was the dream,” Patrick couldn’t look up. He wanted to crawl into a hole.

Kimball was having none of that.  He reached for Patrick’s chin, lifting it to meet his gaze. “I can have two dreams.  Didn’t I recently mention something like that?” He didn’t wait for an answer.  He pulled Patrick into a bear hug. The hug was enthusiastically returned.  _He needs reassurance._ Kimball made a mental note to try to give him that.

Coloring the tattoo took nearly another two hours.  Patrick was being extra careful and wanted it to be perfect.  When he was done, it was deeply colored with reds and blues and purples with yellow highlights so the fish popped off the skin.  He’d added a bit of shadowing around the cross which added depth to the whole work.  He was happy with it and hoped Kimball would be, too.  He gently cleaned and wrapped it.   He held a mirror up for him to see.

“Wow!” Kimball blurted out, “That’s amazing,” he added with awe.  He took a moment to stare at it to take it all in. “It’s better than I’ve ever imagined.  Thank you.” He looked at Patrick like he’d never met him before.

“I told you I was good,” Patrick added with a smirk.

Kimball wondered at this.  _A minute ago he needed reassurance, now he’s bragging._   “And modest,” Kimball teased.  He was enjoying deciphering the puzzle that was Patrick Jane.

Patrick began to explain aftercare for the tattoo. He had a sheet of instructions that he gave all of his clients and he began going through it, on automatic from having said these things so many times before.

“Wait,” Kimball interrupted, “I can’t get it wet?”

“You can shower and clean it, but you should avoid immersing it in any water for too long.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I should have told you,” Patrick realized with chagrin that he’d failed to discuss this before they started, like he did for everyone else he’d ever worked on.  “I can’t believe I didn’t. I’m so sorry.  I’m out of practice and I got ahead of myself.  I should have thought.  For God’s sakes, you’re a lifeguard. On the beach.  What was I thinking. I’m an idiot.  I’m sorry,” Patrick was rambling.

“It’s ok.  I could have looked into it.  I’m the one who asked to start today.  I’ll think of something,” Kimball thought.  “My new lifeguards will get some good experience.  How long?”

“Two to three weeks is best, maybe four.”

“Four weeks!” He took a deep breath.  “The next training session starts in next Monday.”

“Can I help?  Let me be the one in the water.  You can tell me what to do.  I’m a strong swimmer and know the basics.  I’ve always been interested in being certified as a lifeguard.  We can get started before the class starts.  You won’t have to cancel the class and I’ll get certified.  Win – win,” Patrick smiled that smile that involved his whole face.  The one that meant he felt he was pretty smart at the moment.

Kimball smiled despite himself. “Um, let me think about it.  That could work.  We’ll see,” his face was stoic as he weighed his options.

“Okay.  Class starts Monday at 7 am.  We start at the pool at the Y for the first two weeks.  I’ll do whatever I can without immersing it.  Any underwater work, I’ll have you do.”  Patrick watched as Kimball slipped into his professional mode.  He loved how he took his work seriously one moment and cuddly the next. He loved getting to know him. 

“Seven am?” Patrick whined with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yes.  We have to be out of the pool by 9 when the public classes start,” Kimball was still being serious, then we take a half-hour break and meet up at the shack for two hours of instruction.  Then he looked up and saw Patrick’s grinning face.

“Yes, seven, is that too early for you, princess?” Kimball picked up on Patrick’s teasing.

“Never.” He closed the distance between them and kissed him. “I can’t wait to start.”


End file.
